free from the cave
by Marvelgeek42
Summary: "Why would you do that?" they ask him. They can't see why. He is a child. He has so much. So much more than any child could want. Including horrible, horrible memories. "I don't remember," he says. They blame it on the fever he never had. [Reincarnation; set 1968; "some day, some day (yeah)" #1; warnings at the beginning]


**Word Count: 2,077**

 **-Reminder that the author is a white able bodied European. If I got something wrong, if I am being disrespectful, please correct me.**  
 **-With the whole Logan Paul drama, this doesn't completely feel like the right time to post this, but I am impatient. So, let me just say that THERE IS A SUICIDE ATTEMPT and read this under your own consideration. I don't have the space to list the suicide hotlines for every country, but if you need to talk, I am here. If you are looking for a sign that someone cares, this is it. I care. You matter and you deserve to live.**  
 **-Thomas is the token white person because he gave off really white vibes in if you talk (you're gonna get shot) (which is only on Ao3 and idk.**  
 **-Thomas has social anxiety but because he's not around people all that much is not clear. Also he's from a conservative Virginian family and it's 1968. He's not gonna be diagnosed. I don't mention it, but he has Asperger's as well.  
** **-This takes place in 1968**

* * *

 **free from the cave**

* * *

Thomas doesn't know why his parents had given him this name.

Like, he is six. If he knows that there had been a man named Thomas Jefferson before and that that man had done both great and horrible things, then so did they when they named him.

After all, there isn't all that much they don't know. Every time he has a question, he just needs to go to this parents and they have an answer.

Not this time.

Whenever Thomas asked why he had this name, his parents just stuttered.

"It felt right, honey," his mother tries to comfort him. "You'll see when you have children that sometimes a names just... _fits_."

That is not helpful at all.

But it is not that much of a trouble, because only his parents call him by that name. Everyone else calls him Tim or Timmy.

It was because when he had first introduced himself in preschool, he had been really quiet when he had said his name—Tommy, which his parents had called him at the time. The other person—he doesn't remember who it was and it doesn't matter—had misunderstood and Tim had been too shy to correct him.

But it was fine. This way, Tim had a distance between him and that other Thomas Jefferson and that felt really good.

Now in first grade, he is actually listed as "Tim Jefferson" on the roll call—he had begged his parents and they had given in and called Uncle Paul, the principal—and not many people know that Tim's actual name is Thomas.

He knows it, though. And that is sometimes enough to make him feel terrible.

* * *

Tim's memories return on his seventh birthday and they have to postpone his party—with the only two friends he had made, Rick and Bobby—because he is _sick_.

He had actually been that other Thomas Jefferson before. And yes, he had done some pretty amazing things. That, however, didn't mean that the other things had done were excused by that.

He had had slaves. And what he had done to Sally Hemmings, his late wife's half-sister, was more horrible than that.

Tim—did he even deserve to distance himself from, well, _himself_?—couldn't even think of that without feeling the vomit rise to his throat.

How could he have justified the terror on her face? He knew how, but well, _how_?

Tim—Thomas—stays home for a full week of school. He can only bring himself to move to go to the bathroom and even that seems only barely worth it sometimes.

His parents, they don't actually know the full story. They only saw him sick and didn't consider for a second that he may have something other than a sickness.

And in a way, he is grateful for that.

He doesn't think he would be able to handle them questioning him about his last life. They must be admirers, because otherwise they would have given Tim—but really he is Thomas—a different name, and his parents thinking he did great at something he hates himself for? No, thank you, he very much does not need that.

And that is if they would even believe him, because really, why would his parents believe him? He has never heard of anyone remembering a first life, so why should anyone think a seven-year-old is saying the truth when he claims to have been someone famous?

His situation is shitty—he's technically in his nineties, he can say all the things he wants to—enough by its own. Tim—he has no right to call himself anything other than Thomas, does he?—does not need his parents' comments—no matter if admiring or disbelieving—as well.

He doesn't think he can continue like this. He doesn't want to continue like this.

So he sneaks out of the house and into the garden.

He climbs the ladder to his treehouse. It is in the highest tree Tim— _Thomas_ —had seen in pretty much ever.

And he jumps.

* * *

He wakes up by the sound of voices around him.

He recognizes his mother and father, but there are more as well.

He hadn't planned this.

He didn't want to wake up.

Maybe, if he went back to sleep, he wouldn't.

* * *

He does.

And he does again.

And again.

And it is clear he will live.

Hooray?

* * *

"Why would you do that?" they ask him.

They can't see why.

He is a child.

He has so much.

So much more than any child could want.

Including horrible, horrible memories.

"I don't remember," he says.

They blame it on the fever he never had.

* * *

Eventually, he recovers.

Well, he mostly does.

He still has to use a cane, which is only one more thing connecting him to his past life.

Tim hates the cane with a passion, but nevertheless, he has to use it. What else can he do? He needs it to walk, he needs it to stand.

If he doesn't use it, he'll end up in a wheelchair which isn't something he would like at all. They weren't considered much different than invalids, even if they had had a wheelchair-bound president over two decades ago.

Attitudes take a while to change, that should no be a surprise to anyone.

* * *

His parents are convinced that a pet is going to help him, which Tim seriously doubts.

They've noticed the change in him, although it is pretty hard to miss it.

He's been getting more and more quiet as he tried to reconcile the two identities in his head. And he had started using words that no other kid his age would use, because he is also an 83 year old man who is known for his writing.

All men are created equal, and all he hadn't really meant 'all men', did he?

He knew that he had a different perspective on African Americans now, hell, his very use of the term instead of the other one is proof enough.

To think that Martin Luther King—the man that even his father whose views were rather close to those Thomas had held in his last life couldn't help but admire—had been shot mere days before this mess had really started really seemed weird in context.

Tim really hoped that it was all just a coincidence and not someone, somewhere having a warped idea of what he would appreciate.

But anyway, pet.

They arrive at the store and Tim is confident that they will leave without any further additions to their family.

Then, he spots the shortest snake he has ever seen before. He can't find the name of the breed, but it's not labeled as poisonous as the one right next to it is.

Tim sees the snake and he hears the clerk saying that the poor thing isn't likely to be sold, because it is crippled and that he would have to _get rid of him_. Though he doesn't say it as nice.

"No!" Tim protests as soon as he hears it. "You can't do that!"  
"Why on earth shouldn't I?" the clerk asks, clearly confused. "That thing is a runt. It's broken, he wouldn't survive anyways."

"But he's like me," Tim whispers. Then he repeats it, louder and more forceful. "He's like me."

He doesn't need to see them to know that this is the moment his parents exchange a look and begin to start planning on how to include the snake in their life.

* * *

Tim names the snake Jormungandr. It is a nice name, despite what his parents claim when he first tells them.

He isn't mocking Jor with what he can't have, but rather telling him that he still has power to do anything he wants to.

Also, he is a snake and likely isn't familiar with Norse myths in the first place, but that isn't actually the thing that matters here.

The important thing is that Tim made a new friend in his snake. He needs it, too, because his friendship with Rick and Bobby has changed.

They could deal with him being shy and awkward before, but now Tim is also sad and distant quite often and they don't seem to be able to deal with that.

Perhaps they will adapt, perhaps Tim will be able to figure out a way for him to live with these memories, perhaps their friendship will survive.

Privately, Tim doesn't really think so, but hey, it is not impossible.

Still, he misses James. James Madison, the closest friend he had ever had. And yeah, his friend had been younger than him, but they had understood each other better than anyone else ever had.

Wait...now that he thinks about it, they had roughly eight years of age difference. Tim is seven right now, so that means that there is a possibility that James will exist, just that he hasn't been born yet.

Before he makes himself hopes, however, he has to test this theory somehow.

...yeah, he is going to look for the Washingtons. They should be around nineteen and in Virginia as well, which makes it seem more doable.

Not that he has any idea how to do it, he just knows he has to.

* * *

As it turns out, no, he does not have to, because Martha apparently is a mind reader and had known Tim would need this before Tim himself had known.

She simply appeared as his babysitter one day—which was all kinds of weird in ways he would really prefer not to think about—and, once his parents were gone, they sat down on the couch talked.

"It's a lot to handle, isn't it, Thomas?" Martha doesn't need to specify what 'it' is for both of them to know she talks about the fact that they need to handle having these memories.

"Yeah." Tim nods. "And, please, call me Tim."

"George and I found each other and decided to see if there was anyone else. Well, it's not an easy thing to do and we've only found you because the lady at the office pitied George."

"Why that?" Tim asked.

"He had to leave Vietnam last week," Martha explained. She winced as she said that.

"Oh."

"Yeah, oh." She replied.

There was an awkward silence for a few moment.

Tim starts playing with the handle of his cane. It's a nervous habit that has replaced swinging his legs fairly quickly.

"How did you convince my parents to let you...you know?" Tim asks when the silence becomes unbearable. He regrets it as soon as the words are out of his mouth. It's probably not the best question to ask. "Er, I mean…"

"Because of your father's attitude?" Martha asks.

"Yeah. I really didn't expect you to be an Indian—"  
"Native American," Martha corrects, soft but firm. "And also, George is African American."

"Alright," Tim pauses a moment to think about the faces of men like his father—and those that are worse—should they ever hear that _George Washington_ of all people is black now. "I just didn't think you'd be anything but white and my father is about as fond of them as I was last time around. And he doesn't know you and…" He stops talking

and looks at his cane. He wishes he hadn't brought this topic up.

Martha recognizes his discomfort—it's not hard to miss, after all—and ends that tangent. "I used your mother's pity to my advantage."  
"What do you mean?" He had a feeling what the answer would be.

"I mentioned George."

The two of them sit side by side by a moment, neither of them really knowing what else to say.

"Have you met Jormungandr yet?" Tim asks eventually.

"No, I have not. Who is he."

"My pet snake. You wanna see?" He still is a seven-year-old, after all. Or, at the very least a part of him is.

"Of course I want to."

They spent the rest of the evening with Jormungandr, talking about anything and everything, just not mentioning their past lives or skin colors.

Tim had had more than enough of those topics for a long, long time.

* * *

After that evening, Martha never comes to his house again, even if his parents wouldn't be opposed to it.

But she leaves him a number and an address and sometimes, in random intervals, he gets a letter either assuring him that the address is still correct or informing him of the changes.

Every letter is addressed to 'Tim' and it's really nice when—after about a year—they are signed by George as well.


End file.
